by Nic Saint
She stared into Alex’s eyes, as if to draw strength from them, and the most astonishing thing happened. As she was looking into his eyes, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers, then whispered, “Good luck,” and twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and gave her a gentle nudge.
She was in.
CHAPTER TWO
Laura stared at the man seated behind the desk, and the sight that met her eyes wasn’t one that induced her to relax.
She’d seen the club owner, of course. Boris Sarnovsky was hardly a man to go unnoticed. He liked to put in an appearance each night, seated at the front table, scrutinizing his assets, as he liked to call the girls who worked for him.
He never acknowledged them. Never came backstage. She didn’t think she’d even seen the color of his eyes, nor did she do so now, for they were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, even though the room was covered in darkness.
He liked his ‘assets’ clean, so he didn’t allow drugs, and he liked them young, so once you hit the age of twenty-four, you were out. Unless your name was Darlene Harvey, and you stayed on as manager, teaching the girls the moves that had put The Blue Moon on the Brooklyn map.
Only men ever patronized the club, and some of the girls had developed a habit of taking them to one of the private rooms upstairs, where they could make some extra money, after Boris took his hefty cut.
Laura had always refused to offer this extra ‘service’, even though she’d been asked on more than one occasion. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for, and even though she could have used the money, she most definitely didn’t want to go that route.
Her studies had cost her a pretty penny, and now that she was entering her final year, she needed more cash than her uncle and aunt were capable of supplying. When her grades had dropped precipitously last semester, due to illness, she’d lost her scholarship, and the only money now coming in was the money she made. A job waiting tables had been a mainstay during her previous years, but she needed more than what she could make at Denny’s, so she’d gratefully accepted Suzy’s advice to apply for a job on the stage at The Blue Moon.
Even though she’d quickly become quite popular amongst the patrons, she was never harassed or stalked, something she’d feared might happen if she worked as a glorified stripper. That’s where Alex came in. He made sure the men kept their hands to themselves, unless the girls agreed to a private encounter.
She’d heard rumors that Boris didn’t like girls who said no to the customers, but she didn’t care. This was her choice and she was determined to stick to it.
“Get on with it, Miss Armstrong,” the man behind the desk suddenly barked.
“Yes, sir,” she breathed, tripping to the small stage.
Boris was smoking a cigar, the smoke rising to the ceiling. She wondered briefly what kinds of performances the man’s eyes had feasted on in here, but then dismissed the thought. She was quite desperate, and she would show him what she was made of. If she didn’t land the part, it wasn’t for lack of trying. She’d worked her ass off at home in front of the mirror to nail this routine.
She took a deep breath, and mounted the stage. For the occasion, she was wearing black leggings and a spaghetti strap tank top. She’d brought her iPod Nano and now attached it to the speaker set dock.
Today, she was going to try out for the pole dance, and she regarded the shiny brass object with some trepidation. She’d come to regard it as both her friend and enemy. Friend because it could bring in a ton of cash—money she could never otherwise earn. With some luck and hard work, the money would be turned into a master’s degree by the end of this academic year and signal the end of a very tough year.
But she also hated the pole, for the routine required her to display a lot more flesh than she was comfortable with. At home, she’d induced Uncle Hank to install a makeshift pole in the basement, though she always locked the door when she was practicing, not wanting her aunt and uncle to catch her at it.
As the first strands of the pumping hip-hop music started, she assumed the position. Putting her hand on the pole, its smooth surface cool to the touch but quickly warming under her fingers, she allowed herself to slide to the floor, legs spread, eyes locked on the spectator from beneath long lashes in what she hoped was a gesture telegraphing both heat and seductive prowess.
As she arched her back, she reared one arm over her head, then pushed herself up from the floor, one hand still on the pole, her body describing a perfect arc. Flinging one leg up, she draped it alongside the pole, then, taking a firm grip, the second leg followed the first, and now she was dangling upside down, her weight suspended from lean and strong legs.
Good thing, she now thought, that her aunt had paid for all those ballet classes when she was ten. Curling her leg around the pole, she released her hands, dangling with seemingly effortless ease, arms spread, legs firmly clasped.
From her vantage point, she could see Boris observing her, though to be honest, all she saw was the smoke rising, the man cloaked in obscurity.
She raised her torso until she was perpendicular to the pole, then, in a quick flash of dexterity, placed her hands, released her legs, and flung them out, like a flag on a flagpole, her body weight now supported by her arms alone.
Her long red tresses showered like a curtain of fire to the floor as she slowly started to gyrate, her hands quickly changing position, her legs stiff and pointing away. It was a demanding routine, but quite spectacular, she hoped.
Finally, she swung her legs up once again, then abruptly jumped clear of the pole, deftly landing on her feet, arms raised high, and took a graceful bow.
If that didn’t nail it, the man was made of stone, she thought.
CHAPTER THREE
Alex checked his watch. He had better things to do than to stand here waiting for Laura to finish her audition. For one thing, his girlfriend had warned him about being late for the meeting with her parents. He could still make it, but he’d have to hurry.
He pondered Darlene’s face when he called her, announcing his delay. She would be seriously pissed. The girl was a knockout, to be sure, and when they entered the club together, all heads turned, the surge of pride a tremendous boost to his ego. But if she was going to be upset each time something came up, she was in for a world of hurt. For some reason, she was under the impression that if she kept at it, she would finally be able to make him adhere to her strict agenda. Yeah, right. As if that would ever happen.
They’d met at the club, where she was a manager of sorts, and he a glorified bouncer. Muscle for Boris meant just that: taking any odd job that came along, whether it was restraining unruly customers, protecting the girls, or calming frayed nerves when they had to audition for a part.
He resented the fact that Boris didn’t give him the credit that was his due. As an enforcer for the Gornakov family, he’d never thought his job would be that of a babysitter, and yet here he was, escorting Laura Armstrong to her audition. Not that he minded the Laura part. He liked the girl. Liked her a lot, in fact. But it wasn’t what he’d signed up for. Like most of the girls, she would be in and out of here in months. As soon as she got her degree, she would be gone, leaving him to deal with the next batch of young hopefuls. And Darlene.
He thought about Laura’s wavy red hair. The way it cascaded around a pale face that had the power to lift his spirits with a single glance. Her mouth was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. The way it curled up into a smile, or pouted when she was upset. And then there were her eyes. A sparkling blue, they turned smoky when she wanted something from him, clear and innocent when she thought no one was looking. Her lithe frame had lit up many a fevered daydream, as had her eye-catching moves on the stage. She didn’t know it, but her youthful innocence and soulful gazes set his world ablaze each time they met. She called him her personal protector, and the only friend she had in this place. He could say the same thing about her, though his interest was far more prurient than mere friendship allowed.
He shook the thoughts from his mind, as he had before. Laura was a pure soul, so far removed from the world he called his own it was ridiculous even to contemplate a possible match. If she knew how he really felt about her, she would be very upset indeed.
He surveyed the single light bulb that cast its dim light from the ceiling, then studied the cracked tile floor and the faded wallpaper and thought the club could definitely use a makeover. Ever since Yury and Vladimir Gornakov had retired from business, things had been in a turmoil, and though he was only a small cog in a very large machine, he heard things. Things like Yulian Gornakov stepping in and taking over from his father and uncle. Or Roman Loginovsky taking charge of the American end of the business.
The transition would bring about some serious changes, according to his siblings, all of them employed in some capacity or other across the vast and sprawling Gornakov empire.
As the youngest and newest recruit, he was lowest on the totem pole. He knew he had to pay his dues, and pay them he would, but he hoped this trial period would be over soon, so he could move on to something more lucrative.
For one thing, he’d vowed to buy Darlene a serious rock, but on the salary he was currently scraping together, that wasn’t happening.
And though he could always borrow the money from one of his siblings, he so wasn’t going there. It was hard enough being the youngest of the Petrov bunch, he wasn’t going to humiliate himself by begging for a loan so he could buy his girlfriend a ring. Hell, no. They’d never let him live it down.
As he stood contemplating a fate that had left him doorman to the likes of Boris Sarnovsky, a piece of lowlife scum if there ever was one, he suddenly thought he heard the sounds of a scuffle beyond the door. Though the room was soundproof, there was obvious yelling on the other side.
He frowned, putting his ear to the padded door.
Then he heard it, clear as a bell: Laura’s voice, ringing out in a cry of anguish.
What the hell…
Quick as a flash, he opened the door and stormed in.
The sight that met his eyes had him momentarily reeling.
Bent over on the edge of the stage lay Laura, a fat man straddling her, his pants pooled around his legs, while she fought him, slapping her fists helplessly against his chest, her body wriggling with fear and revulsion.
In two steps, he was upon them, and was dragging the man away from her. With a grunt, he flung the bastard to the floor, then stood towering over him while Laura hugged her arms around her shivering frame, crying convulsively.
The figure on the floor suddenly turned to face him.
Startled, he saw that it was Boris Sarnovsky himself!
Red-faced and naked from the waist down, the club owner roared, “How dare you lay a hand on me!” Crawling to his feet, he bent to draw up his pants.
The moment he’d recovered from the shock, Alex said in a low voice, “You stay away from her.” He didn’t care one bit that this was his employer. He had no business molesting Laura. He’d been hired to protect the young woman, and protect her he would.
“You fool! You’re finished! Finished! You’ll never work again!”
“I don’t care. If you ever come near her again, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?” challenged the man with a leering smirk.
“This is not right, Boris,” he riposted vehemently, eyeing the man darkly. “You don’t do this. Not now. Not ever. Especially not Laura.”
The club owner turned his eyes on him, bloodshot in a bloated, blotchy face. “Don’t I know it,” he grumbled. “She’s about as fucking frigid as they come.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he warned, a dangerous light flickering in his eyes.
Boris scoffed. “What’s she to you, then, huh?”
“A friend.” He watched Laura huddle on the far side of the stage, gathering her stuff, her face turned away. She was still crying, her shoulders jerking.
Boris waved his hand in a gesture of disgust. “I hope she’s worth losing your job over.”
“She is.”
Boris shrugged, his interest waning fast now that he couldn’t get what he wanted. “Get the fuck out of here, and take the bitch with you.”
At these words, Alex gritted his teeth. “First you apologize.”
The man emitted a hacking laugh. “Are you fricking nuts? I ain’t apologizing to that two-bit tramp.”
Alex pointed to a frightened Laura, who’d now slunk to the door and stood on shaky legs, watching the scene unfold. “Apologize. Now!” he thundered.
Suddenly, Boris was in his face. “Fuck you!” he spat, spittle flying. “How’s that for an apology? Now get the fuck out! You and that stupid cow!”
Fury roared like a tidal wave inside Alex’s head, and before he could apply a measure of control, his fist had struck out and hit the irate club owner on the chin. The man’s head snapped back, and he tumbled to the floor like a felled tree.
What happened next, Alex would later replay in his head over and over again. As Boris tumbled to earth, his head hit the sharp edge of the stage. There was a sickening crack, and then the man lay motionless, his neck bent at an awkward angle. Before Alex’s horrified gaze, a small trickle of scarlet seeped from a head wound, and then he was kneeling down and checking the man’s pulse.
Not finding any, his blood ran cold. And if that hadn’t done it, Laura’s screams assaulting his eardrums sure did.
He stared down at the dead club owner, his mind working fast, then spoke curtly. “You were never here, Laura.”
“What?” she cried, clutching her head.
He pointed to the exit. “Go now, and if anyone asks, you were never here!”
She stared from him to the dead man, then stumbled back to the door, and left on a run, her eyes panicky and wild. He heard her heels clacking along the corridor, and then he heard a door slam and he knew she would be safe.
He sank next to the body of Boris and stared into the man’s lifeless eyes.
This, he felt, was one of those defining moments school teachers like to go on and on about. Only he’d never thought he would remain so icy calm when it happened to him. When he took the phone out of his pocket, he wondered how he was going to get out of this one. He had the distinct impression he wasn’t.
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Copyright © 2015 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.
Published by Puss in Print Publications.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
